


Unspoken

by sunaddicted



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Feels, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Making Love, Tender Sex, Tenderness, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5265566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaddicted/pseuds/sunaddicted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s as normal as they get and they’re both fine with it: in the end, they don’t need words to profess their love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

_Unspoken_

Silence.

Q has grown used to it in his relationship with James Bond and even if he hates it - hates the emptiness between their panting mouths and gaping in their chocking lungs - he doesn’t try to force the words out of their minds and keeps himself locked up, just like Rapunzel in her tower.

They banter at work, tease each other with practised and flawless sass, knowing where to stab to get the other perfectly and deliciously riled up - maybe that’s why their vocal chords knot when they’re alone: the probability of hurting one another is so ridiculously high that they don’t even try for a functional relationship.

James’ calloused fingers questioningly brush a tender caress against the smooth skin of his naked shoulder and Q smiles, looking up to observe pallid blue irises worshipping him with mute adoration. Q stands on his tiptoes to kiss those thin and always frowning lips, moisturizing them with a lap of his tongue, and let a chuckle tickle his throat when his thick-framed glasses bump in James’ nose.

The agent picks them up carefully and sets them aside before kissing Q’s lowers eyelids, as delicate as a falling snowflake: he always keeps his eyes closed when he’s without his spectacles, claiming to be practically blind. It amazes James that the young Quartermaster would show such faith in a ruthless assassin like himself, completely trusting him with his somewhat frail body - opposed to his own that he has honed to perfection with hard training, transforming it in a deadly weapon. A killing machine. A murdering tool.

 _I love you_ , he wants to whisper in his ear after nudging away his luscious curls with his nose. But he can’t and with muscled arms squeezes that lean and pale body closer to his chest, hoping that Q’s mathematical mind will pick up his accelerated heartbeat and give it the right interpretation.

Q curls into James, enjoying the warmth coming off of him, and inhales deeply the ever-lingering scent of gunpowder mixed up with some fancy cologne. _I love you too_ remains stuck in his throat as one of his hands possessively caresses the other’s left toned pectoral, thrumming with the strength of his heartbeat.

Their limbs entwine together fluidly and gracefully, slotting in place in such a choreographed way that speaks of experience and deep knowledge of the other’s body: it looks like their slowly dancing to a song playing only for them in their heads.

They blindly navigate the dark and messy flat without upsetting its organized chaos, the lights of the cars passing by the windows painting sinuous and thick shadows on their straining muscles, pouring an aura of enthralling mystery on their mystically orchestrated moves.

The soft mattress welcomes them in its warm and pillowy nest, making them feel protected - not even then they can dislodge the ice in their tracheas keeping them from talking.

Q clings to James, digging his short and blunt nails in those wide shoulders that literally carry the weight of the country on them and arches up against him, mouth searching for the sharp edge of James’ stubbled jaw and licking up along it, reaching his mouth already open to accept his questing tongue in. _Never let me go_ , he pleads against his teeth, carefully licking and mapping out every nook and cranny of his mouth.

James trails his rough fingertips against Q’s ribs and jutting hipbones before dipping to tenderly caress his stomach soft with lack of physical exercise that makes him feel always do stupidly protective - Q doesn’t need his protection, not when he could kill way more people than him with an effortless tap of his fingers on his laptop before his first cup of tea as he is so fond of reminding him. He revels in the trembling body beneath his own, aches to leave his mark upon it as he bites down on the sharp end of an exposed collarbone.

The younger man almost - _almost_ \- whines but manages to suffocate his voice and scrapes his fingers down James’ straight spine, drawing sticky and sweetly smelling blood that clots into an intricate web on his suntanned and scarred skin.

At the unexpected electric pain shooting through his nerves and up to his brain, a breathy moan leaves James’ chest, a whispered hymn to his lover who takes the mute praise eagerly and reaches for the bottle of lube, stretching leisurely against his body.

Q grasps the other’s thick fingers and kisses them lightly before liberally pouring lubricant over them, warming it up as he rubs it in his skin. He can’t wait to feel full of his lover again, everything aching with obsessive and burning need in such a bright way that his neurons refuse to process other information other than James’ digits massaging his opening, steadily relaxing the tight muscles with talented strokes.

A sigh, _So tight_.

A choked whimper, _Deeper_.

A biting kiss, _More_.

A bruising caress, _Please_.

 _I worship you_ , James’ searing manhood seems to drill into Q’s innards as he slowly fucks him and cradles him close.

 _I adore you_ , Q’s mind relentlessly screams as pleasure sets him on fire and makes him writhe as if electrocuted.

They chase after their completion working together as the team they are, a perfectly oiled machine; it’s a wondrous experience fit into someone else so neatly - it makes you think that somewhere there must truly be a god that was pitiful enough to create your other half and make it happen on your path.

Q’s comes first, silent and wide-eyed, biting sharply on his knuckles and lungs labouring to get some oxygen going through his veins.

James follows immediately, not as quietly as a keen that could be a mangled spectre of Q’s name tears through his vocal chords and puffs out in the open, irises inevitably focused on Q’s pale green ones.

Silence.

They keep mute even in the aftermath while James cleans them up with a flannel and they curl together under the duvet, sighs of satisfaction warming the frigid air in the room.

The following day, they banter at the breakfast table as if their souls haven’t mingled together the night before. James scolds the cats that happily jump on the table and curiously sniff at their plates, shedding hair only god-knows-where while Q hides a smile behind the rim of his mug and reads the news on his laptop.

It’s as normal as they get and they’re both fine with it: in the end, they don’t need words to profess their love.


End file.
